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Zachary Quinto was above eavesdropping. Yes sir, he was raised in a good Christian household, and however much he wasn’t a fan of the doctrine, he still retained the lessons. Do unto others. Sleep in the bed you make. Watch not, for God is watching.
See, that last one was still fucking problematic. Least of all because Zach hadn’t believed some omnipotent power was watching his every move since he was about sixteen, but also because it shouldn’t apply to situations one had absolutely no control over. Like when Christopher Fuckface Pine was moaning in the next room in this crappy hotel with paper thin walls.
Seriously? When Chris had said at the end of a long day of interviews that he was completely beat and going to bed, Zach had figured that meant he was going to sleep, not finding someone between the lobby and the elevator to fuck.
Which was kind of weird, really. He’d kind of guessed—okay, imagined—Chris for a vocal one, but these moans were fairly sporadic, not rhythmic, and sounded kind of less like he was enjoying himself and more like he was in actual pain. Which didn’t exactly help either, Zach had his kinks. But he also had his worries, and Chris in pain in a way that he was maybe not enjoying wasn’t great either, and he was reasonably certain Chris had been really exhausted and not up for a little light masochism before bed, right? It was easy to hear voices through this walls, laughing, even the chime of the elevator down the hall. Zach hadn’t heard any negotiating of any kind.
Which didn’t discount the possibility that Chris was maybe having some quality alone time either. In which case, what the fuck, Pine, do it in the shower, get it over with, don’t spend forty-five minutes on it, you’ll chafe, and we still have six days worth of jet-setting and long days. Zach had been hard enough to drill oak since the first moan he’d heard drift through the plaster.
On cue, another sounded through the wall, and he’d had enough. Throwing off the sheets, he went to the door that separated their rooms and tapped out a rhythm on it. “Chris?” he called tentatively, “Are you… okay?”
Another loud, annoyed moan, and a few seconds later, the door opened to a rumpled Chris in pajama pants. “This mattress fucking sucks, Zach,” he complained, “I swear to God, it’s got buckshot in it or something. I can’t get comfortable, and I’m fucking tiiirrrred.” The last word was definitely a patented Pine whine.
Zach grinned, “So call for a different room, then.”
“They’re all full,” Chris groused, “Why do you think they stuffed us in these lame rooms instead of the suites?”
“Nawww, poor neglected movie star,” Zach clucked his tongue, “Got a pea in your mattress?”
Chris wrapped his arms around his front and pouted, “Shut up, man.”
“Fuck’s sake,” he snickered, then sighed. He could listen to Princess Whitelaw moan all night and deal with his grouch ass in the morning, or he could let him sleep in his perfectly adequate bed. Either way, his boner was not going away tonight. “Ugh, come on, you can sleep with me.”
Chris’ eyebrow went up, “Why, Zachary, are you trying to woo me into bed?”
“I’m trying to fucking sleep with you one way or another, unconsciously or not, so come on, Pine.”
Ten minutes later, Zach had a zonked out Princess curled up under his arm. Hey God, he thought sardonically, See this bed I made? No good deed goes unrewarded, right? Right?